


keep myself awake

by boleynqueens



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Dreams, F/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-20 02:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14251299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: what happens when you remember someone from a past life?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Anger Management](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13889091) by [Kat_Arva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Arva/pseuds/Kat_Arva). 



There’s no one at the check-in desk, but there is a notecard propped and folded that reads “Be back in ten.”

Henry, not being in the mood to wait ten, slides his numbered card next to the note and walks behind the desk and into the closet.

It is dark, although open, and failing to find a light switch he uses the flashlight on his phone to flick through the coats and their numbers, attached on the sleeves by clothespins.

Upon hearing a loud hiccup he nearly jumps out of his skin, lurching backwards, he looks down only to find a girl sitting on the floor, hand clasped over her mouth.

“Jesus! You _scared_ me—”

“Sorry! I was just…”

She trails off, placing a small and pointed chin atop her phone.

He can’t make much out otherwise—there’s the slight glow of her phone, but the darkness mainly obscures her features, despite the light outside and the open door…he can see that she has hair that goes down to her waist, the masque that glows in the dark lights it up somewhat, but only covers the area around her eyes and the tops of her cheekbones.

“Are you like…okay?” he asks warily, finally finding his coat and easing it off the hanger.

“ _Yes_ ,” she answers, with more than a little bravado, “I am just…the designated driver, so.”

“Right…well…maybe you have a weird group of friends, because also having been a designated driver, I can’t ever say that one of the requirements was sitting on the floor of a coat closet.”

“No, it is not. I just…two of my exes are here,” she says, with one measured exhale, “and I don’t want to be in the same room as them if I can’t…drink.”

“Oh. Well, _that_ makes sense.”

This charity gala masquerade is, basically, limited to just the one ballroom—albeit a very large one. He had found it a bit stifling himself, in less stressful circumstances.

“I’m going outside,” he continues, pulling his arms through the coat, “if you’d like to take a _break_ from the closet, you’re welcome to join me.”

“They might be outside, too…I shouldn’t risk it.”

“ _Oh_ ,” he scoffs, “please. They won’t talk to you if you’re with me.”

“You sound _very_ sure of that!”

“That is because I _am_ very sure of that.”

“Why? Are you so very frightening?”

“Frightening? No…intimidating, more like.”

“Really? You do not intimidate me.”

“I am not trying to.”

The white of her teeth in the dark, and then:

“Help me up.”

* * *

They sit outside, masques off, Henry in his coat and Anne with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, at one of the glass tables on the roof of the luxury hotel. He smokes, and Anne does not.

As luck would have it, both Percy and Wyatt are on the roof as well, although cloistered within different groups of friends. They do not wave or come over to greet her; and she wonders if this stranger truly is serving as a shield, or if he is all bluster.

Granted, he is taller and broader than either, but _are men **really** so easily intimidated by such things, or—_

“So…did you dump them or vice versa?”

“Excuse me?”

“I cannot figure it out—both have such wounded expressions that I sort of assume the former, but—”

“You don’t know who they are,” she snaps, crossing her arms, “all I said was that they were up here—”

“You’re either embarrassed to be around them sober out of guilt or embarrassed to be around them sober due to rejection; both options seem equally plausible.”

“You are _very_ irritating,” she says, cheeks heating up.

“And I assume they are the two that keep looking over here at you. The one with the mop of hair and the inkstained fingers…writer?”

Anne grimaces, lifting the styrofoam cup of hot chocolate (the gala’s catering staff has been handing them out up here) to her lips and wishing it was spiked with peppermint schnapps.

“Poet? Musician? _Both_? Poor you…it is a burden to be someone’s muse, no?”

That he has managed to pull at the root of the truth so quickly and ruthlessly leaves her feeling a bit breathless.

“So him,” Henry says, nodding his head to the side, as if confirming to himself, “and the one that looks like a Disney prince. Yes?”

Her sister had asked her once, drunkenly, if Anne _was just dating Percy because he looked like Prince Philip from Sleeping Beauty_ , which Anne had watched every other week when she was seven years old.

 _Ken Doll_ had been the less flattering nickname his conventionally attractive appearance had earned, and was used by her friend, Anaïs Gainsford, who had never liked him.

“It was the former,” she says, curtly cutting the line of interrogation before it can continue any further, “I broke up with both of them. And I don’t like guessing games.”

He opens his mouth again, and she anticipates the next question before he can ask it:

“And I don’t like when men tell me what to do. Neither started out doing so, but both ended up doing so.”

“Well,” he says, smiling ruefully as he stubs the cigarette out on the ashtray atop the table, “you and I have _that_ in common.”

“You don’t like women telling you what to do?”

“I said we have that in _common_ , not a common opposite—no, I don’t mind women telling me what do; especially since they usually turn out to be right.”

The chill of the March night finally hits her, she rubs at her arms.

“Oh?”

“Yes…granted, I might have a bit of a skewed sample. All of the women in my family are highly intelligent. Are you cold?”

“No,” she says, teeth chattering.

Henry tuts, frowning as he unbuttons his coat.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, getting up from her seat, “I’ll just get another hot drink—”

“You shouldn’t catch a cold just because you’re afraid of running into your exes,” he says, holding his coat out folded and hanging over one arm, “and they’re leaving right now, by the way.”

* * *

Anne takes it, gingerly sliding it over her arms. It is heavy over her shoulders, and it warms her through the sleeves of her dress; warmth presses against her bare skin.

She sits back down, clearing her throat and tying a knot with its belt at her waist before thanking him.

Henry smiles then, widely, genuinely, sunnily… _winningly_.

Anne feels as if she has just taken a seat in front of a crackling fireplace.

There is the revelation: _he, too, is warm._

Warm enough that she wagers that people are always wishing to sit near him, just like people always gravitate gratefully towards the blaze of the hearth on cold winter nights.

When her friends text her that they’re ready to leave ( _Biiiitch, you’ve been in the bathroom FORever??_ _Did you not get our texts? Did you ditch??_ ) she feels a twinge of disappointment.

He accepts the return of his coat graciously, and escorts her down to the ballroom, where she meets her friends at the end of the dance floor, near the glass exit doors.

* * *

The collar of his coat smells of lilacs.

He wears it on the Uber ride home, not wanting to take it off.

* * *

By the time he arrives at their apartment, he could swear the scent has gotten into his bloodstream.

He shakes his head, placing the coat on the hook by the front entrance.

* * *

He should take a shower, he thinks, as he walks up the stairs—he wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea, and his neck is sweetly fragrant in a way he imagines it usually is not.

But, he finds he’s thoroughly exhausted by the time he reaches the top of the stairs.

Besides which, Catherine is already asleep, atop all the covers and with her glasses still on, surrounded by printed drafts of the research paper she said she had to work on tonight.

He collects them blearily, piling them up in a stack and setting them onto their desk.

He slips the glasses off the bridge of her nose, folding them carefully and placing them atop the papers.

The rest is a down-pat ritual—they rotate these things, galas and special events, one putting in the required appearance and the other using the free night to catch up on schoolwork (it is the rare occasion when they can make an appearance together—there are only so many hours in a day, so many days in a week, after all):

Undressing and dressing himself, the blanket over her body and the pillow wedged under her head (she stirs, but does not wake).

Even tucking a loose tendril of hair behind her ear (albeit tenderly) is part of the ritual—just as much as brushing his teeth is.

Just as much as sliding under the covers is.

Just as much as switching off the bedside lamp is.

* * *

The edges of his vision blacken as soon as he lays his head back on the pillow, and he falls deeply and quickly asleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Madame Anne is not one of the handsomest women in the world; she is of middling stature, swarthy complexion, long neck, wide mouth, bosom not much raised, and in fact has nothing but the English King’s great appetite, and her eyes, which are black and beautiful." -- Francesco Sanuto, Venetian ambassador

Anne highlights a section of her lecture notes, hopelessly exhausted in general and also at the prospect of having to read through the rest of them.

She hadn’t been able to sleep last night for longer than a restless half-hour that didn’t do much to improve her energy level _or_ outlook on life….

Everything feels bleak when one is this tired—the foamed milk atop her cappuccino is not the frothy wonder she usually finds it, the coffee slides bitterly over her tongue. Every time the person at the table behind her sniffles, it increases her desire to turn around and fling her spoon at them.

“So you’re friends with Henry Tudor now?”

She looks up, startled— and then, upon ascertaining the identity of the speaker…annoyed.

“Hello to you, too, Tom.”

Thomas Wyatt scoffs, then sits without invitation at the chair across from her.

“Is that his name, then?” she asks sweetly, canting her head, “He only told me it was Henry.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know who he is.”

“ _Should_ I know who he is?” she asks airily, letting her hand rest over the keys of her laptop in a curve.

Wyatt leans back in his chair and strokes an artful goatee (a new look since their break-up…one she hates and wants to snatch off his chin), chin in one hand, elbow atop the table. The gesture prominently displays the tattoo written in calligraphy down over his arm, spanning from the bone of his wrist to the start of his elbow _: noli me tangere_ (One she had never asked him to get and was _yet, somehow, completely responsible for_ …well, if you took his word for it, anyway).

“Maybe you don’t,” he says sheepishly, letting his hand fall on the table ( _took close for comfort_ , so she withdraws her own from the table and places it on her lap), “he did…do a study abroad thing last year.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about him—do you have a crush on him, or something?”

“ _No_ …do _you_?”

“Gosh…maybe I _do_ ,” Anne says, shrugging a single shoulder and a taking a gulp of her drink, “he _is_ a very attractive man.”

She doesn’t (although he is) but she has this problem…when presented with the pain and discomfort of someone that has insulted her, she digs at them given any opportunity. Even when she doesn’t need to, even when they’re already wounded.

The clench of his jaw, the misting over of those green eyes she used to adore—both are an indulgence to her.

“He has a girlfriend…did you know?”

A tinge of betrayal (illogical as that is) colors her current emotions, then becomes more than a tinge… a wave of it almost sweeps away the spite and fatigue, then ebbs just as quickly, taking everything else with it until she feels empty as a glass. 

“Of course,” Anne says, smiling and tearing off a piece of her croissant, “did you know that tables are for paying customers only?”

* * *

“Have you been in here all day?”

Henry blinks, then scrunches his nose, vision somewhat blurred.

“What time is it?” he asks groggily, kicking to free the sheets tangled around his legs.

“It’s half past two!” Catherine exclaims, hands on hips.

Which means he missed—

“Did you miss your class?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he admits.

Touching his face, he can feel the crease the pillow made on his left cheek, a deep one (odd, considering that their pillowcases are silk). Catherine tuts and walks over to the bed in two strides before smoothing a piece of his hair down, gently.

“Are you sick?”

“No, I don’t think so…tired, though, strangely.”

“You could use a shower,” she says, hand still cradling the top of his head.

“Thank you,” he says gruffly, pushing her hand off and taking it in his own, kissing the top of it, “I will get right on that.”

* * *

He remembers dreams, although the specifics of their contents elude him…a long succession of dreams, a chain of them.

He can remember the feeling of them…golden, warm and pleasant enough that he wanted to return to the feeling immediately upon waking.

Henry had been half-awake, half-asleep for thirty minutes or so, clicking the snooze of his phone over and over again until he turned it off and dove back under the covers; as if under a spell.

Something about the steaming water reminds him of something…

Had he dreamed of taking a bath?

What a strange thing to dream about, but yes, he must have, and more strangely it was an incredibly unmodern one, although he recalls it was housed in a luxurious bathroom…gold battens on a white ceiling, and the bath was surrounded with deep window seats.

The bath itself was made of wood, covered in a linen sheet, and filled nearly to the brim with steaming water.

And there had been someone in there with him, wearing a linen shift…first on the window seat, then in the water herself.

The shift had become wet, clinging to her narrow body and its tapering waist as she sat in his lap, dark hair becoming damp as his slick hand stroked it, from the top of her head to the small of her back.

They kissed and his senses were flooded with lilacs and brightness…

He turns the dial to cold.

* * *

Henry finds that he can’t fall asleep that night—it makes sense, he supposes. Sleeping from half past midnight to mid-afternoon messes up the body’s internal clock, or _something like that_ …whatever, he’s not a doctor.

First, he types out an email apologizing for his absence in class. He’s yet to miss one this semester with the glaring exception of today, although he does often arrive late.

He sets out to accomplish some of the more tedious work on his dissertation that he’s been avoiding. For this, he uses a legal pad and pen, for some reason the eye strain of looking at a computer screen is bothering him more than usual (a good explanation would be dry contacts, but he’s been wearing these lenses less than ten hours, thanks to his prolonged sleep the night before).

Midway through a draft for a conversion table detailing different currencies versus pound sterling, he remembers another dream...

* * *

  _Hunched over at a desk lit by candlelight, writing, and writing again with a quill and ink….crumpling and writing more drafts than he would ever send._

_So many beginnings that were not right…close, but not perfect:_

> _I do not know—_
> 
> _Your last letter leads me to believe—_
> 
> _I wish to know—_
> 
> _Do you love me as I love—_
> 
> _In comparing your last letters to your first, I find ( ~~hope for?)~~ a marked change in feeling—_
> 
> _In turning my mind over_
> 
> _[In turning over in my mind the contents of your last letters,](http://historyandotherthoughts.blogspot.com/2014/01/henry-viiis-love-letters-to-anne-boleyn.html) _

_And then placing down the nib of the pen._

_Beginning to realize just how much paper he has burned through, setting aside the perfect first line, he tries out the second on another piece, and marks an ‘x’ beside his first try for the second line._

_It is not the perfect second line, but he will need it to compare it to the others…_

* * *

Henry frowns, tossing his pen at the legal pad.

It is not as if he has not met beautiful women before (although the woman last night was, admittedly, particularly so…a dream dressed in black, peering up at him within the white masque through sooty lashes with eyes that were so hazel as to be almost gold), but he has never met one that discomfited him so…never one that has invaded his subconscious to this extent.

He texts Charles, hoping for some companionship to his 24-hour gym. It’s past midnight at this point, so it’s a long shot, but…he could use a distraction, and Charles is certainly that.

Not that he doesn’t love him (he does), but no one else can talk about nothing quite so well… bets on who will win the World Cup next, an analysis of which Pop-Tart flavor he would ‘ _bang,_ _if they were chicks’_ …the list goes on.

* * *

There’s no response by the time he dresses down for the pool, so he swims a few laps in the hope that it’ll tire his muscles enough that he’ll crash asleep by the time he gets home.

* * *

_He does, and wakes in bright sunlight. There is a carpet rolled out over a green meadow, it is warm against his palms._

_Anne is wearing black, again (or…before?), although this time the sleeves extend past her wrists, the skirt of the dress is longer, and the black velvet resting atop the part of her brown hair is a handspan wider that the headband of the night before, and embedded with pearls._

_[“Wake up.”](https://alicehoffmans.tumblr.com/post/172441508208/annesneville-anne-and-henry-reunite-from-the) _

_Henry looks around, carefully—a drawbridge hangs over a moat several yards behind them, attached to a castle covered in green and red leaves._

_They are ensconced on all sides (save for a small passageway) by blooming roses._

_“Henry, wake up.”_

_“Is it you?”_

_It is Anne’s voice, but he fears the actual words are being spoken back in his home, that he will have to leave bed and face the monotony of the day…he fears that in half an hour he will be sliding behind the wheel of his car, it is such a dismal possibility compared to the comfort and beauty of his present surroundings._

_“It is me. You would know me anywhere, yes?”_

_“Yes, I would.”_

_She smiles, taking his hand in hers._

_“You have to wake up,” Anne says again, voice thick with tears, rubbing a circle on the back of his hand, “and soon.”_

_“And leave you?”_

_Suddenly it is freezing, the sunlight evaporates in place of clouds, snow falls gently from the sky and they are dressed in the same, but with furs._

_“We cannot stay here,” she says, shivering, “if you wake, all will be well.”_

_“I thought I was awake.”_

_“No, you are asleep—"_

_“Why do you wish me to leave?”_

_“I do not want you to miss anything,” she says softly, “that is all. You miss so much when you are asleep.”_

_“Will I be able to return?”_

_Their foreheads touch now, she nods and he can feel it._

_“So long as you can[keep yourself awake](https://open.spotify.com/track/3tPCiMh7bbbF4aMHcE94J3?si=7LN0hJcIS4atgXOULab2hA)—until you can no longer bear it—you may return.”_

_“And you will be alright?”_

_“And I will be alright.”_

_She nuzzles her nose against his, edges closer to his mouth, both pairs of lips less than an inch from meeting—_

* * *

He jolts awake.

The bedside clock reads 3:00 AM.

Henry sighs, then gets out of bed quietly to pad down the stairs.

He makes a pot of coffee and settles back into reading his notes for his dissertation.

* * *

The dreams Anne had last night were vividly splendid, and now she finds herself hovering her mouse over a certain patron’s name on the computer.

It would be a terrible violation, but there is also no one behind the library’s desk this late—there is only one other coworker present, and she is on her lunch break.

There is also only a few students at the computers, no one even close to approaching the help desk.

She takes the plunge and clicks.

He rents books often ( _how has she not seen him before?)_ , she scrolls down his check-out history with bated breath, gnawing two of her fingernails as she reads.

It is like reading his diary, she should feel deep shame and guilt, she knows, but only feels a burst of adrenaline akin to five shots of espresso gulped in one go (perhaps the guilt will come later):

Biographies of many notables (leaders, mainly—the last one is of Winston Churchill), books on the Battle of Agincourt, books in French ( _Le Morte d’Arthur)_ , _The Alchemist_ , books on chivalry, books about Henry V, books about the Hundred Years’ War, books on medieval ransoms, books on and by Chaucer,  _The Roman de la Rose_ …

Anne remembers reading the last, actually—a hybrid French literature/history course had fulfilled an elective requirement for her major in International Relations, and that had been included on the reading list.

A line from it had been whispered in one of the dreams, a palm not her own pressed against her pounding heartbeat:

> _“A heart as hard as a diamond, steadfast and nothing pliant.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening material~
> 
> https://alicehoffmans.tumblr.com/post/172159822468/the-corrs-only-when-i-sleep


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The love letters Henry wrote to Anne were principally in French, but not the most sexually explicit of them." -- Eric Ives
> 
> "Within about a month, after an imposed period of quarantine, Anne Boleyn was back at court and Du Bellay had a clear answer to his earlier question [ "Was Henry & Anne's relationship strong enough to provide an extended period of separation?"]. The separation had no negative effect on Anne and Henry’s relationship. On the contrary, on Anne’s return, Du Bellay noted ‘the king is in so deeply that God alone can get him out of it’ (Ives, Pg. 101)." -- On the Tudor Trail, http://onthetudortrail.com/Blog/2011/02/01/anne-boleyn-and-the-tudor-sweating-sickness/

Anne has an early shift at the library today, before her 11 AM class-- but she has another full night of rest under her belt, so it is no burden.

She finds she is still somewhat warm from her first task, to reshelf the books returned in a cart. Behind the desk again after finishing the cart, she glances furtively around the first floor-- given that it is relatively empty, she folds the sweater she has just shed and bends down behind the desk, sliding it into one of the shelves.

Anne steadies herself on the edge of the desk with her hands before hoisting herself back up, squarely across from Henry Tudor.

"Hello, again," he says, hands in the pockets of a leather jacket, smile hesitant.

She is caught on the 'again', and then inwardly scolds herself for being foolish enough to catch on it-- of course, by 'again', he means after the party… _just because you have been dreaming of someone, doesn't mean they have been dreaming about you!_

"I have a hold, I got an email that it was--"

"Of course," Anne says, smoothing the front of her skirt with her palms, then picking up a pen, "Student ID number?"

Henry rattles it off and she copies it down, leaving the counter to walk over to the holds shelves to select his own.

The copy is slim and hardback, its title in serious font emblazoned across its cover-- a very official-looking book about currency conversion.

Anne scans it at the desk and hands it over.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and his downcast eyes draw her own to another detail-- the dark creases under his, the pallor of his skin.

He looks up and she holds his gaze, the book held between them as a shiver of recognition (one she thinks -- is it wishful thinking?-- is mutual, given his sharp inhale and sharper exhale, his grip visibly tightening on the book's spine) runs through her.

There was a book in one of the dreams, a book he retrieves for her-- [in the dream, Henry gave it back to her with apologies and remorse that it was 'so taken' and promised stern response to the person responsible for its misappropriation. Anne had told him that he should read it himself, that she had found it 'most illuminating' given their current circumstances. He obliged and upon finishing the book had responded…enthusiastically to its content, _to say the least_.](https://www.theanneboleynfiles.com/anne-boleyn-william-tyndale-henry-viii/)

But the memory of it runs through quick as a lightning flash, she releases her hold and he takes the book, holding it against his wide chest and nodding, once. Thanking her again and ducking his head, before he leaves.

_When is the next time I will see you again?_

She hates the thought, and yet the desire to know its answer feels as natural as hunger, as natural as wishing for rain after a year of drought, as real as the tremor in her bottom lip.

* * *

In class, Anne takes notes absentmindedly. Really, most of her focus is devoted to how wholly unfair the whole thing is. If she has to dream about anyone, why must it be of a man who has darkly tousled hair, cheekbones that could be the adoration of poets, and a girlfriend?

* * *

Those thoughts have been her undoing, it seems-- for the next three nights she sleeps restlessly. There is an hour of sleep and dreams, and then she is awake again. Awake again, and for all the world she cannot fall asleep again for another hour. And so it goes, hour after hour…

* * *

He has never been to this café before, but finds he likes its quiet-- there are no loud groups of people using pushed-together tables to host business meetings, the music playing is instrumental and so low as to be almost nonexistent. It seems a fair enough trade-off for the ten minutes he had to wait for his drink to be made, the foam art crafted.

Deeply involved in his work, and with music playing loudly on his headphones, he is startled to glance slightly across the table and see another mug there…

Henry looks up all the way and finds its owner to be the star of his dreams, sitting upright, carding a stray piece of glossy brown hair behind one ear with a trembling hand.

" _Je voudrais arrêter de rêver de toi,_ " Anne says, voice thick, bright eyes brimming with tears.

He pinches the inside of his elbow under the table to make sure this is not one, but it cannot be for it stings.

Overcome with a blush at the memory of the most recent dream of last night (which had prominently featured undressing her slowly throughout several layers, unlacing stays, pulling down the square neckline of a fine linen shift and placing tender kisses upon the curves of her breasts); he finds himself momentarily tongue-tied.

It was said sans greeting, but he does not find it rude. To use any of the usual niceties would seem disingenuous at best within these circumstances. He admires the bravery and forthrightness in her question, as he wishes the same and does not know if he would have found the courage to voice it first (his worst fear is not clowns, or heights, or even a logical fear such as death-- it is, and has always been, rejection from others…not being liked, being seen as a fool).

" _Et moi, de toi_."

Anne smiles, wiping a spilling tear from one side of her face.

He wants to reach out and comfort her so much that he feels it as an ache, but knows he cannot.

It is not the whole truth, really…partly it is; he wishes he could stop dreaming of her so that his life would not be reduced to an endless waiting made up of him counting down the hours until he could sleep (although it is not really the sleep he so looks forward to, rather the dreams sleep promises).

But it is not so much wishing to stop dreaming of her as it is wishing to make those dreams real, instead.

* * *

He still has the dark circles under his eyes from a few days ago, but Anne knows she has her own to match.

She is relieved beyond the telling of it…her fear was a blank look in return. The best case scenario, she had thought, was that he would simply have not understood French, and that she would've been only slightly rather than highly embarrassed. The worst case, she had imagined, as she almost spilled her latte upon her surprise at seeing him seated at her favorite coffeehouse; was that he would understand perfectly and think she was an insane stalker.

And could she have blamed him if he had? If some girl he barely knew, someone he had talked to briefly at a party, had sat at his table several days later and told him she'd been _dreaming of him_?

To sit down and ask such a thing was such a high-stakes bet that Anne can scarcely believe she had the courage to make.

They continue the conversation in French, it feels far more private that way.

He asks how she knew he spoke French, and she smoothly says she guessed it because they spoke it, she read it written by his hand in her dream (she is _not_ going to admit to stalking his check-out history).

They are able to guess fairly easily at each other's focus of study based on what they know of each other from dreams. Henry asks, with a sly smile, if it is something 'continental' in nature, and she admits to International Relations with a French focus. Anne asks of his (aided by her breach of privacy), if it has something to do with glory, and he admits his own in History; that his dissertation will be on prisoners of war during the Hundred Years' War, with a slant towards Henry V and the Battle of Agincourt.

Rain streaks against the windows, and she can pretend this collection of minutes is the only thing that exists on the timeline of their world…nothing before, nothing after. It is a wonder to share a table with a _should-be(but somehow isn't)_ - _stranger_ as wind whistles and rages outside; a brief refuge that is nearly decadent in its warmth.

* * *

"Do I look…different to you, in dreams?" he asks, shifting papers across the table.

"You are dressed differently," she says, with a shrug, teasingly.

"Yes, as are you…I was just wondering. Since you look a bit different in mine."

"Oh?"

"You have black eyes, in mine."

Within dreams, it is a black that absorbs, a black that ensnares, enchants…that displays anger and vulnerability with equal intensity.

"It is genetically impossible to have black eyes," Anne says, smirking, chin in one hand.

Her own are hazel, although of an equal brightness-- which, after all, is not dependent on color (a night sky may be lit up by the stars and moon, after all).

"Very dark, then."

"Your hair is red."

He touches it, self-consciously, brow furrowed.

"In mine," she clarifies.

"Oh…yes. I was just…it's funny, because I do, actually."

Anne tilts her head to the side, puzzled, and asks incredulously:

"You _dye_ your hair?"

"Yes, it's not _so_ unusual!"

"Why?"

"It suits my complexion."

"You are very pale, I would think red hair would suit you fine."

"' _Very_ pale?'"

"Compared to me," she says, grinning, displaying the back of one olive-toned hand, "so what is the real reason?"

Here they have arrived, and there is no turning back the wheel.

"My girlfriend," he says, with a casualness he does not feel, "is a…strawberry blonde, I guess you would say? I got tired of people saying that we looked like twins."

* * *

Anne knew this would come up at some point (would have, actually, hated him if he never brought it up), so it's not disappointment she feels, exactly…more like that disappointment being confirmed.

"You're…with someone," she says, nodding once in acknowledgment.

She cannot imagine what is to be someone who cares so much about the opinions of others. To her, that is usually an afterthought.

 _To dye one's hair rather than tell people to fuck off with their unasked for commentary_ … suggests a preoccupation with what people think of you that _might_ just border on obsession.

* * *

"Yes."

He admits to it, ashamed. He shouldn’t be, really-- what is shameful about being in a faithful relationship of two years? A relationship of love, if not passion…

And yet…somehow, he almost feels as if should have known she would be coming into his life, as if he should've waited for her…as if he has failed by not doing so.

"Are you happy?"

The question catches him off-guard. Partly because he cannot remember the last time someone asked it of him, and partly because he is not sure how to answer.

The happiest he's ever been is in his dreams with her.

Perhaps it would be here, were he able to touch…even to take her hand…if he were without attachment, perhaps it would be, but he is not and so does it matter?

"It's not a hard question."

"You're ambushing me--"

"You view a question about your happiness as an ambush? That is very telling in and of itse--"

"I am happy sometimes."

"Are you the happiest you have ever been?"

He shakes his head, defensively, as if the back-and-forth motion could shake her and those lilacs out of his goddamn hair, then:

"No, but that isn't to say I'm _un_ happy."

"Are you the most happy?"

_Is that not just another way to ask the same question?_

"No," he scoffs, "but that isn't realistic."

"What makes you think so?"

"If I don't get to ask questions myself, this is an interrogation," he says petulantly, running a damp finger along the rim of his glass of water so that it rings, "so-- are _you_ the 'most happy'?" 

"No," she says easily, without a trace of emotion, quick to answer as he was slow.

Her confidence astounds him, he wants to bottle some of it for himself, for a rainy day.

"But you hope to be so?"

"Of course," Anne says, wide eyes a prominent vision within her thin and striking face, "what else is there to live for?"

* * *

Henry threads his fingers together, leaning back into the cushioned seat.

Those full lips are pursed, those blue eyes bright…with something she cannot discern.

"Perhaps it is for the best," she says.

* * *

The words are said softly, gently-- magnanimously, even, and yet his throat tightens upon hearing them.

"What do you mean?"

"Well…while most of the dreams are lovely…there is one that is not."

That has not been his experience-- even the dreams in which they argue ( _'you gave her the upper-hand', 'do not ask for me again, as far as I am concerned this betrothal is over!'--_ from her-- _'stop haranguing me so!', 'I have done everything in my power so that we may be together, I beg you not to leave'_ \-- from him) always end in reunion and resolution. Afterwards there is the feeling that the time apart has only strengthened their bond, their closeness that would be unbearable were it with anyone else (their closeness that, he gets the impression from those on the fringes of this dream-world, _is_ unbearable to almost everyone else).

"What happens?" he asks.

His hand begins to shake, he moves it to the seat, out of sight.

"I can never remember, that one, exactly…when I wake up. Never the specifics. Just that you…hurt me."

 _When and how_ he wants to ask, but he bites his tongue, waits for her to continue with bated breath.

"Or…that's not it, exactly," she says, nose scrunched in concentration, rubbing one of her temples, "but close to it? You…ask someone to hurt me. Or maybe not that, either…someone asks you if they can hurt me. And you say 'yes.'"

 _I would die before letting any harm come to you_ , he thinks fiercely; but it will sound _unbearably_ melodramatic if he says it aloud, even if it _is_ how he feels (hotly, buried deeply in his chest, there, in the clench of his jaw, to think of allowing her pain is a thing he rejects most viscerally)…to say it aloud would trivialize it, somehow.

"Well," Henry says carefully, matching her stare, "I can't help what happens in your dreams, but I hope you know…I would never let _anyone_ hurt you."

* * *

Anne finds it very difficult to scoff in the face of such earnest, much as she wishes to.

All she can do is absorb it, and let it affect her.

"We should probably not see each other again," she says quietly.

Henry bows his head, biting his lip, but nods.

"Can I ask you one last thing?"

"Of course," he says.

"The night we met, did you…sleep well?"

"Yes…why?"

"I wasn't able to sleep at all…but a few days ago, when I saw you at the library, you looked…tired. And I had gotten a full night's sleep the night before."

"Those two things can't _possibly_ have anything to do with each--"

"It doesn't make sense, I know, but I think they do…did you have trouble sleeping before we met?"

"No," he admits, still finding it a ridiculous notion regardless-- as if the world was ruled by fairytales, and curses or spells made up of dreams.

"Neither did I."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That we should see…if there's possibly a connection. Take turns sleeping."

"How will we know the other isn't sleeping if we aren't going to see each other?"

There is a bustle around them, and both startle-- it is dishes being collected, one of the employees with a broom,  another flipping the 'open' sign over and shooting them both a very pointed look.

They have been here for hours that have felt like minutes.

* * *

Both stand under the awning as rain drips down, their respective hoods up. They stand a respectable distance from each other, that _honestly, might as well be reduced by five_ given the heat and tension that is between them despite it, palpable as a rubber band that has been drawn back and rubs the pads of one's fingers raw.

"I didn't sleep at all last night," Anne says, crossing her arms, "so I think tonight should be my turn. We can just…switch every other day. For a while, and see if that works."

A strand of hair, wet from the rain misting, falls in a sluice across her mouth.

He clenches his fist to resist the urge to move it (because if he does so he'll cup her cheek in his hand, he'll stroke it with his thumb, he'll lean in and that and all the rest will be irrevocable).

"Fine," he says, sighing, then glancing towards his parallel-parked car, "do you need a ride, or…?"

"No, my apartment's not that far, I'll walk."

"In the rain? It's not a problem--"

"I don't think…we should be in a car together."

And she's probably right in thinking so…..this much attraction with distance between them and puddles at their feet, this much pull and chemistry surrounded on all sides by chairs and tables full of other people…what would an enclosed space do?

"I have an umbrella," Henry says, "at _least_ let me get you that."

"I don't think we should walk together--"

"Then I'll just give it to you."

* * *

" _What_?" she sighs, taking the umbrella when he returns with it, noting his stiff shoulders and clenched jaw.

"It's nothing, I'm just surprised you think so little of me…I would only walk with you to make sure you got home same, I wasn't going to try anything--"

"I don't--"

"Hell, I'll even just drive beside you to make sure you're in the door, if you _really_ trust me so little--"

"It's not that I think so little of you," she says lowly, as they the step aside to make way for some passerby, "it's that I think so little of myself."

" _Oh_."

* * *

She is so short in comparison to him that he has to look down at her in surprise-- there is no other way.

He tuts, then seems to shake off his discomfited state as quickly as it's arrived, holding his hand out for the umbrella.

Anne hands it over and he opens it, it is large enough to not only protect from rain but to shield them from wind.

"I would rather I held it, is all," he says as she huddles underneath it, as they step out from under the awning, "it's a McQueen."

 _Who keeps an Alexander McQueen umbrella in their trunk_ , she wants to ask but does not.

* * *

They walk in silence, he slows so that his long-legged strides do not outpace hers.

It is more a march then a walk, really…solemn, both solely focused on not doing anything that would allow the spark between them grow into something more as the rain around them pours.

* * *

"This is me," Anne says, and he stops at the steps she'd pointed to.

She pivots to face him, arms crossed.

He is statuesque, features rigid, like a Buckingham Palace guard.   

"Thank you for the umbrella," she says, _lamely_ …

* * *

They are _so close_ , she is mere steps away from the entrance to where she lives, half of him (the sanctimoniously virtuous and honorable half) wants to scream ' _go inside!'_ ; while the other half wants to softly say _'come here.'_

"You're welcome," he says, feeling stifled.

"Maybe they'll stop soon," Anne says, fiddling with the zipper of her coat, "I mean…they have to stop eventually, right?"

"Of course. Everything ends eventually, right?"

"Right."

And with that she ducks out from under the umbrella and makes her way up the steps.

He waits until she is inside. Once she is, he begins the walk back to his car, burning all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Je voudrais arrêter de rêver de toi. = I wish I could stop dreaming of you.
> 
> Et moi, de toi = And I, you.
> 
> thanks for the translation from @towyns, my friend! <3

**Author's Note:**

> tbh...idek!!!
> 
> this was supposed to be a one-shot and it got long and i'm hoping...it's not longer than 3 chapters. 
> 
> reincarnation meets magic realism meets angst meets...expository style?
> 
> just something to warm-up my writing skills, stretch my imagination etc. not entirely sure where it came from but it wouldn't leave me alone. 
> 
> dreams will play a big part, if that was not clear by the chapter ending by him falling asleep shshsh-- it'll pick up shortly thereafter


End file.
